SGA Fic - Fortunate Pt. 2

[kriadydragon]

Back to Pt. 1

Rodney stared at the blinking cursor as though it had the potential to bite him. Just write it, just write it, just write it... It wasn't as though he were calling anyone, and it definitely wasn't ratting John out. He had questions, he needed answers, he'd promised not to “call” or “rat” which had left him with few options – two to be exact.

Just write it. Emailing, technically, wasn't a phone call, and Daniel, technically, wasn't the SGC. There was also nothing harmful about a quick little question that would make no mention of Sheppard whatsoever.

Rodney glanced at the hallway, stilling his breathing to focus his hearing on even the smallest noise coming from his bedroom. The entire house was dead silent save for the soft, almost imperceptible hum of the laptop.

He could do this. This was okay. This wasn't ratting anyone out. Rodney typed fast.

I apologize if this seems a personal inquiry, but you had spent time in a mental institution, and I was wondering if you could answer a quick question. How bad did the man-handling get when/if you fought? Did it leave bruises? I am just wondering as I sometimes see bruises on Sheppard's arms... so much for not mentioning Sheppard, but at least he hadn't mentioned anything about escape... The doctor says it cannot be helped, but it still has me concerned. Sincerely, Dr. Rodney McKay, PhD.

After Rodney hit send, he wondered if, maybe, he should have been a little more tactful with the intro of the letter. Or if he should have written it at all.

Rodney set the laptop aside, eased back against the couch cushions, and waited. Sam had made mention once or twice about Daniel being the only other person she knew of with late-night habits as bad as McKay's. So unless she'd been exaggerating then it hopefully wouldn't be too long before Rodney received a response. He'd run into Daniel a few times at Stargate Command, and each time Daniel had opened himself up with little enthusiasm to talking. He'd always seemed just as relieved as Rodney when Rodney said “maybe later.”

Rodney thought about watching a movie or playing a game to pass the time but thought better of it with a high-strung Sheppard down the hall. No telling how that addled brain of his might interpret some Star Trek dialog or the gun-blasts on Halo. Instead, he dropped his head back and allowed himself to doze, high-strung himself enough to hear the soft chime that would sound when his computer got mail.

What woke him was the crash of a door being shoved open followed by the choking sounds of dry heaves.

Rodney stood. “Sheppard?” And cautiously approached the bathroom door.

John was on his knees holding the toilet bowl in a white-knuckled grip, his body spasming with each retch. The compassionate mode of action would have been to rub John's back, get him a wet washcloth, tell him to breathe and that everything would be all right.

Rodney just stood there, letting self-preservation and disgust trump kindness. Then Sheppard collapsed on the floor – folding like a puppet with its strings cut – and it scared Rodney enough to forget all about the possibility of being puked on.

Except there was no vomit in the toilet when Rodney passed it on his way to John. Sheppard was on his side, his eyes half-lidded and his flanks billowing from rapid panting. He was also a hell of a lot more pale, a pure translucent white darkening all the little veins and capillaries and a bruise on his collarbone. Swallowing hard, his heart pounding, Rodney touched the skin of Sheppard's neck to check the rate of his pulse.

Sheppard started awake with a sharp gasp and a mad backward scrambled away from McKay, packing himself into the corner between the wall and the cupboard, wide and wild eyes darting around the bathroom as he shook like a twig in a hurricane.

Rodney froze, his heart thrashing, his body tensing for a delusion-induced beating. When Sheppard's eyes locked on him, Rodney squeaked a small, pathetic, “Oh, crap.”

Instead of launching himself at McKay, Sheppard went perfectly still. “Rodney?”

“Y-yeah?”

Sheppard's throat bobbed a couple of times as his frightened – yes, frightened, very frightened – eyes did another hyper dance around the small lavatory.

He then said, with a breathy, nervous chuckle, “Forgot where I was for a moment.”

“Obviously,” was all Rodney could think of to respond with.

When Sheppard returned his gaze to McKay, his expression, though still nervous, was also abashedly apologetic.

“S-sorry. I'm sorry.” The sincerity of that apology, and the look on Sheppard's face, was so wounded-puppy that Rodney nearly let his guard down and scooted closer to see if Sheppard had hurt himself in his mad scuttle. Except Rodney was nowhere near being that stupid.

“That's okay,” he said, wishing it hadn't come out so strained, making it hard to buy. John, however, nodded resignedly as though he'd deserved it then began the painful climb back to his feet.

Rodney made his move with Sheppard too busy trying not to fall back on his ass to attack. He grabbed Sheppard's arm and pulled until the other man was relatively on his feet. He let John lean against him as he escorted him back to the bedroom. After depositing him on the bed, he went to the kitchen for a wet dishcloth and a plastic cup so Sheppard could rinse and spit, even snagging the mouthwash along the way to help get rid of the taste and the mop bucket for future “needs.”

Even sitting, John was unsteady, his arm trembling as it held him up while he rinsed his mouth out. When finished, Rodney once again had to tuck him into bed. During the transition from sitting to scooting under the covers, Sheppard's sweater rode up just enough to flash a sliver of pale, bruised hip.

“Did – did they hit you?” Rodney asked, not wanting to but needing to get it out of the way. He still didn't think the bruises the result of rough man-handling. At this point, however, knee deep in what could be considered harboring a fugitive or kidnapping – however the authorities wanted to spin it – he didn't know what to be sure of, making gut instincts that were rarely ever wrong (except when it came to weapons that destroyed solar systems) all he had to cling to.

And Sheppard's reaction in the bathroom had been that of a man treated very, very unkindly.

John curled up tight under the blankets that he pulled up to his chin. “I wasn't making it easy for them,” he said, his eyes shadowed with fear and anger. He wasn't justifying what had been done to him; he was just telling it like it was.

“I imagine,” Rodney said. “And I imagine they probably had to get rough. They, uh... they showed me the videos... of your...” he twirled his hand, “…episodes.”

John stared - head bent, eyes unblinking - at the brown-curtained window at the foot of the bed.

Rodney cleared his throat. “As proof that you were really....” He circled his finger at his temple then dropped his hand to his side. “Anyways, um... there was lots of grabbing and pinning you down. I think one of them may have had his knee in your back, can't be sure. I wasn't really happy about that, and you were even less happy. But that doesn't give them the right to hit you, if they did. Or kick you. Definitely not step on you. Although, I suppose if hitting was involved you'd have more bruises on your face -”

“Too obvious,” John muttered. “They knew you would have blown your stack, accuse them of abuse.”

“True,” Rodney said. “Did they hit you? Because... because that's a lot of bruising.”

John's eyes darkened, turning the gold-flecked hazel to dark green, and he nodded jerkily, painfully hesitant to admit it.

Rodney's spine went rigid as an iron pole. “With fists?”

Another nod.

“Feet?”

Affirmative. Sheppard's fingers dug into the blankets until they shook, his anger and humiliation so thick Rodney could feel it provoking his own negative emotions.

He didn't think when he asked, “Why? I mean, besides fighting back... surely they would've just sedated you. Why? Why did they do it?”

“Easier, I guess,” John rasped. “I wasn't always fighting back. Sometimes... I was just out of control. I would get angry – really, really angry. Sometimes scared, especially when they would yell at me, tell me to get up, slap my head, knee, arms until I finally... just attacked them. I don't really... really remember much of it. There was always this kind of haze when I attacked then I'd wake up hurting and nauseous.”

Sheppard lifted his head to look more directly at Rodney. “Does that sound like any kind of therapy you've ever heard of?”

Rodney was about to ask Sheppard if he looked like he'd studied up on the latest medical journals, except he was feeling a little shocky at the moment so could only shake his head no.

Sheppard dropped his head back onto the pillow. “They'd hit me harder if I didn't react. I think it was the yelling and crowding that set me off though. Too much noise, movement... scared the hell out of me.” His eyes fluttered closed, and his breathing evened out. Rodney just stared at him.

It could all be a matter of perception – Sheppard fights back, the orderlies get rough, Sheppard's scrambled brain registers grabby hands as pounding fists.... Those bastards beat him.

Rodney backed up until his legs bumped the cushioned chair he kept in his room for decorative purposes, and he dropped into it. Leaning his elbow on the armrest to have his thumb-nail within nibbling range, he indulged in a pure selfish moment and wished Sheppard hadn't decided to show up on his doorstep. He had no idea what the hell to do, and morning would come soon. When he didn't show up for work, the SGC would call, and Rodney would have to make up some excuse for staying home.

And Sheppard was right - he sucked at lying. Even if he pulled a good cover story out of his ass, then what? Pull another one then another one until Sheppard was well enough to hitchhike elsewhere? What if John didn't get better? What if he got worse? What if the SGC decided to send someone to check up on Rodney, Sheppard spotted them, freaked and ran or attacked?

Rodney dropped his head into his hand, gritting his teeth. Why the hell did Sheppard have to come to him?

Because you're his friend. He needs help. He's scared.

Rodney shook his head, already knowing that this wasn't going to end well. Even if the SGC placed Sheppard in another hospital, he'd probably just make another break for it.

And if John was telling the truth... but that was a big freakin' if. If medical science was voodoo then psychology was astrology – a whole lot of educated guesswork with a little voodoo thrown in to fix things. Anything Rodney knew about the workings of the human psyche he'd picked up from his former sessions with Kate and hearsay, and according to both, the delusional tended to exaggerate the crap out of everything.

What wasn't exaggerated was that the hospital hadn't informed Rodney about John and all those bruises. Sheppard needed help, help Rodney couldn't give beyond hiding the guy in his home for an indeterminable amount of time, maybe until he healed, maybe for the rest of their lives.

Neither was a pretty prospect.

Rodney dug the heel of his hand into his forehead. Again, he was too tired, and it was way too friggin' late to deal with this now. There was only one certainty in this chaos, and that was that Sheppard was going to owe him – big time.

TBC...

On to Pt. 3

A/N: Sorry for no Daniel yet, but he'll be here soon ;) Also, a second apology for the shortness of this chapter. Due to various reason that I won't bore you with by getting into, some chapters may end up being a tad short now and then.

Comments

[katstale.livejournal.com]

Love the way you're pacing this one, going slowly and dropping little hints but not quite coming out and telling us what they were doing to poor John. I'm looking forward to seeing Daniel's response and especially looking forward to seeing how both John and Rodney deal with things as time goes on. :)

[kriadydragon.livejournal.com]

Thanks. :) And Daniel will be coming soon, I promise ;)